Lakeside Property in Hell
by Twinings
Summary: We all know better than to use telephones.  Seriously.  [CAT]


_Disclaimer: Not owned by me. CATverse is mine. Here's hoping for no major errors. Can't finish proofing now. Find the timeline wherever you can, and for the love of God don't read this one until you've read Techie's "Black and Blue."_

* * *

Most men of Jonathan Crane's level of intelligence would have stayed in the hospital until the injuries healed. He was in no way equipped to take care of himself alone, he had no one to help him, and being alone in the big, bad world was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

But he had no intention of staying.

As luck would have it, the idiots at the free clinic where he had ended up hadn't recognized him, even when the swelling and bruising in his face went down enough for him to recognize himself in the mirror. Once or twice, someone had tried to ask his name, but he had been conveniently unable to speak at the time, and they had let it drop. So the poor fools had no idea that they were harboring _the Scarecrow_. And whatever it was that was watching out for him (because he was _never_ that lucky without supernatural assistance) Crane didn't intend to be there when the mistake was discovered.

The first day he was able to walk on his own (though the hospital staff fully expected him to be a vegetable for another week or more, with all the damage that had been done to his knees, among other things) he stole a pair of crutches and made himself scarce.

Movement proved to be more difficult than he had hoped, even with the crutches. He had barely made it outside before he collapsed behind the nearest dumpster, shaking and nearly weeping from the pain that shot through his half-healed body, hardly blunted by the drugs in his system, with every move he made. Lying still in bed, it had been bearable, but movement brought agony of a type surpassed only be the beating that had given him these injuries in the first place. He managed to drag himself out of sight, and then spent a long time just lying there, berating himself for his weakness, but unable to move.

Only the thought that he _couldn't_ let himself be found here gave him the strength to drag himself to his feet and begin the slow, tortuous journey back to his hideaway.

The lair was closer. He couldn't help thinking of it. He had been far from home that night, if home was where he parked himself at night. But the lair, _their_ lair, the closest thing he'd had to a real home in years, was just down the street.

Years? No. It was the _only_ "home" that had ever meant anything to him at all.

He _must_ be in bad shape, if he was thinking that way.

_Better not go back there, then. No telling who or what you'll hallucinate, just to pass the time._

So, it was back to the old, abandoned police station for him. He could only hope no one had moved in on his territory while he was away.

The old police station had been abandoned since long before he came to Gotham, but he found it a delicious irony that he should live there now. Further irony, and far less amusing, was that he was going to have to cut through the alleys to get there. Walking the streets in his current state, he would be far too conspicuous. He had to remain hidden.

But he did _not_ want to have to hobble, alone and unarmed, into one of those Gotham City deathtraps, where no one could hear him scream…and no one would bother to help him even if they did hear.

The sun was setting, filling every corner with shadows that could be hiding anything, and the early fall chill cut right through the scrubs he had liberated along with the crutches. For the briefest moment, he wished the girls were alive.

If they had been alive, they would have insisted that he lean on them, even picked him up and carried him if he had let them get away with it. They would have kept him warm even if that meant beating up a hobo to steal his coat. One of them would have run ahead to scout the alleys before he ever had to enter, shining a light into those shadowy fears he would never have spoken aloud, and would never have to. They would have destroyed anyone or anything that threatened him, probably before he had time to do more than recognize the threat. They would have taken him back to the place that they had made their home, and they would have fed him until he could hardly move, and then they would have tucked him into bed and stood watch outside his door, or even by his bedside if he had asked them to, fully prepared to chase away _anything_ that wanted to hurt him, even in his dreams.

At the moment, he hated them for encouraging this weakness.

(And for leaving him. He tried to push the thought away, but couldn't. That one small, despairing corner of his mind would not let go of what had been, because…in this bleak moment of perfect honesty, he didn't know what he was going to do without them.)

Was it possible that he actually needed them? Had they really meant more to him than the clingy meat shields he had seen very time he looked at them?

He didn't know for sure.

At the moment, all he knew was that for the first time he could remember, he didn't want to be alone.

--

The sun had set, the streetlights were dead, and he found himself in almost total darkness, dragging himself inch by painful inch through the last place in the world he wanted to be.

His progress was even slower than he had expected. Every move he made sent jarring pain through some part of his body. It even hurt to stand still and breathe. He was sweating profusely, even as he shivered in the cool night air. And those damned painkillers and all that time spent doing nothing but lying in a hospital bed had left him weak as a kitten—no, weak as a _newborn_; he wasn't going to think about cats.

And he wasn't going to acknowledge that new and thoroughly unsettling voice in the back of his mind that wanted him to just give up.

Much as he might want to agree with it.

What was the point, anyway? He was never going to do any of the great things he had dreamed for himself when he was young. He was probably not going to live much longer, anyway. He had long since passed the average lifespan of a supervillain. He had cheated death more times than he cared to count. How many more times could he do it?

And when he finally lost, would anyone really give a damn?

No. There might be a party to celebrate the fact that, without him, the streets were that much safer. But there would be no sad little bouquet of flowers buried under the snow at his grave in an "anonymous" display of mourning that would be clear enough to anyone who bothered to really look.

And, once again, without his willing it, his thoughts turned back to _them._

If, wherever they were, they were still aware of what was happening to him, they would never forgive him if he gave up and let something even worse happen because he wouldn't fight to save himself.

And he knew full well that no matter how bad things were, they could and would get worse if certain people caught up to him before he was prepared to face them.

At the moment, he wasn't sure he would _ever_ be prepared to face his problems. He was feeling lost, adrift, and only the thought that he _should_ put off further pain as long as possible propelled him away from the wall that had been his support for the last few moments, and back out into the alley.

He was never going to reach safety at this rate. He was tired, he hurt, and every sound or hint of movement made him flinch, as if it were about to happen all over again.

He couldn't do this. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but…he needed help.

He _needed_ a trio of highly skilled henchmen whose loyalty could not be cast in doubt. But since people like _those_ were not going to come to him more than once in a lifetime, he would take what he could get.

Not that he could get much just at present. He didn't have the time or the resources to seek out anyone remotely reliable.

Who was he kidding, anyway? He didn't need underlings. He needed _friends_. And it had been a long time since he had even considered cultivating those.

There _was_ the Riddler…They weren't exactly friends, per se, but they had been willing allies in the past. He might be able to call on Edward's help, for the right price. Maybe even for less incentive than that, in light of the relationship _he _had somehow developed with the girls.

Friendship. That again. It was one of the things that kept Edward from being a truly great villain, the fact that he still had a heart. Oh, he wasn't afraid to do what needed to be done, but he was more interested in acquiring wealth and confounding his opponents than in the kind of wanton destruction that was part and parcel of the Scarecrow, or the Joker, or any other _serious_ threats to the city.

He almost laughed when he realized just how far he was from being a serious threat to a bowl of tapioca pudding just then, much less the entire city.

He shouldn't have thought of pudding. He hadn't had much of an appetite lately, but his apathetic eating habits were catching up to him with a vengeance now that he was actually burning energy.

He was going to _have_ to stop somewhere. Find a phone, get something to eat, and most importantly, _sit down_. He couldn't keep this up. But where could he go for even temporary safety?

There were plenty of apartments around here that he could break into, but dealing with the tenants would be far more of a problem than usual. He doubted he was capable of overpowering anything stronger than a cup of coffee.

Coffee…what he wouldn't give for a steaming cup of liquid stimulant.

He shivered, and that decided him. He started hobbling toward the nearest building. Surely he could think of _something_ better than standing around in the cold, waiting for something to happen.

External occurrences so rarely worked out in his favor. The only positive thing that had ever come without any effort on his part was the acquisition of his minions, and even that had been an irritant as much as a help.)

He ducked into the shelter of the doorway leading to the stairs. The people living in these apartments weren't particularly well off, not likely to be _too_ wary of a shabby-looking stranger asking to use the telephone. It would be better if he had something other than bright blue paper to wear, but that couldn't be helped. Unless…

Unless what? What was he going to _do_? What plans did he have? _None_. Much as it went against his nature, he was just going to have to…hope for the best.

He knocked on the first door he came to. There was a long moment of silence, punctuated by the sudden sound of furniture scraping across the floor.

"Who's there?" asked a child's voice. "My daddy can't come to the door right now."

"Uh—hello," he said to the little girl. This could be a stroke of luck. She was clearly working from a script—most likely home alone. "Could I use your telephone?"

_"Hello, Edward. Could I ask you for a favor?"_

_"Hi, Eddie. Guess who's not dead yet!"_

_"What do you call an elephant hitchhiker?"_

This was a stupid idea. But who else was he going to call?

"I'm not supposed to let strangers in," said the kid.

"I don't need it for long. I only need to make one call."

She hesitated.

"Are you a doctor? You look like a doctor."

"Yes…yes, I am." It wasn't a total lie, even if he wasn't precisely allowed to _practice_ anymore. This was no time to argue semantics with a ten-year-old, anyway.

She opened the door. And he nearly fell over.

She looked—she looked like a miniature Al, right down to the Dracula t-shirt and the streak of purple nail polish painted into her hair. She was pale and pouting and so _familiar_ he just wanted to…to…

How could there be some random child in Gotham City with Al's face?

"I'm really not supposed to let people in," she said petulantly. He turned on the trustworthy doctor routine.

"You're not home alone, are you?"

The kid shrugged.

"Whatever. You make it quick. I'm going to get my neighbor."

Well, it was good that she wasn't a total idiot. Still, he couldn't let her get away with making the mistake of opening the door to him in the first place.

A swing of a crutch sent her stumbling back against the wall. She wasn't nearly as hardheaded as any of his late minions. One single blow knocked her out cold. He knocked her out of the way, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

That would teach her to remind him of a dead woman.

Well, this was going to be a bloody little surprise for her parents when they got home. It was every mother's worst nightmare, he was sure. It was almost a shame he was going to miss the reaction.

He could only assume that he had been correct in thinking the apartment was empty except for the little girl. Still, he wasn't stupid enough not to check.

There was a little boy sound asleep in one of the bedrooms. Chances were nothing untoward was going to happen. Still, he would feel better if he made sure.

The parents weren't going to be at all happy when they got home. Not one bit.

Once he had taken a trench coat and a nice pair of shoes from the hall closet (the vacated space was the perfect size to hold the little girl) he limped into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and stared at the telephone in front of him.

_Now or never, Crane. It isn't going to stand up and start doing magic tricks._

(And if it did, he would just have to blame it on the medication.)

_What do you call an elephant hitchhiker?_

_A two and a half ton pickup._

Stupid idea. Stupid, stupid idea. But this was his only real option.

While he was contemplating, a sharp pain in his ankle made him jump. He pushed himself back from the table as the pinpricks moved higher up his leg.

Not _again_. Wasn't there _anything_ that wasn't going to remind him of those three?

A little grey kitten was climbing up his pants.

"Shoo," he said. It looked up at him, meowed, and sank its tiny claws into his thigh—thankfully bypassing the knee. He tried to push the thing away from him without tearing out a hunk of his own flesh. The cat had other ideas. It hung on for dear life until he gave up. Then it hauled itself up into his lap, curled up, and snuggled against his stomach, purring noisily.

"I hate you," he muttered. It purred like a rusty motor and nuzzled his arm, begging him to pet it. Hesitantly, he touched the back of the kitten's head.

It bit him.

Oddly enough, it was the cat that decided him. He extracted his hand from its playfully nipping little jaws, and considered bashing the thing's head against the wall, but instead reached for the phone.

He had thought of the girls as catlike almost from the beginning, and not just because of their initials. Not even because they had given him their affection like a lavishly-jeweled gift, and expected his in return, as if it were no less than they deserved.

No, they had been cats, and _he_ had been a bird, their kill that they had played with like a living toy, amused by his attempts to escape. They would turn, hissing and snarling, to defend him from anything that threatened to take him away. Sometimes they would even let him think he might break free of them, only to pounce before he could flutter to the safety of the treetops. But they would never willingly let him go, always playing Sylvester to his Tweety, no matter how many anvils he dropped on their heads.

It had taken him the longest time to realize that they had no intention of ever harming him, that their games were spurred by playfulness and nothing more. After a while, he had actually stopped watching for signs that _this_ pounce would be in earnest, because he realized that they weren't seriously hunting him. And they weren't just keeping him alive because he was more entertaining when he could fight back. They actually…_cared_.

It had been a disturbing thought then, and it was still disturbing all these months later.

Someone out there had actually liked him. In spite of the lunacy of such emotion, which must have been obvious, even to them. They had cared for him, and they had cared for Edward, but they had stayed with him because they thought _he_ needed them more.

Such things should not have been possible in the reality in which he lived.

He picked up the phone and dialed, choosing not to focus on _how_ he knew the Riddler's private phone number, that even the Batman hadn't been able to trace.

It rang once. Again. A third time. And then there was a click, accompanied by a faint burst of static.

He froze. _What am I doing?_ He couldn't just announce that he was in need of a rescue. Even _if_ Nygma actually came through for him, he would then owe him _far_ more than he was comfortable with trying to repay.

He hung up the phone before the first "hello," and sat, staring at it as if there were a nest of scorpions lying in the cradle. _Stupid._

And then it rang.

_Star 69?_

He picked it up, realizing almost immediately what a stupid move that was. He wasn't supposed to _be_ here, and whoever was calling wouldn't be too happy about hearing an unfamiliar voice, especially if it was the people who actually lived there. But…_but_.

"Hello?"

"Hi! May I speak to Mr. Larry Compton, please?" said a perky female voice that sounded…oddly familiar.

He made a sound that she took as confirmation.

Who was she? A telemarketer, most likely, but did he _know_ her? Had he used her as a test subject? However he knew the voice, it hadn't sounded nearly so bubbly when he'd last heard it.

"How are you today, Mr. Compton?" Without waiting for a response, she launched into her pitch. "I'm calling to let you know about a fantastic offer…"

It was then that he stopped listening. It wasn't possible, but…

This was the Captain's voice.

He recognized that trace of an accent that wouldn't go away no matter how hard she worked at it, and only got stronger when she was upset. He recognized that breathless, high-pitched quality that crept into it when she was nervous…and she _would_ be nervous now.

He remembered the very first plan he had carried out with the three of them working for him. He had needed someone to make a phone call, to lure the police and Batman to the opposite side of town, and no one would have suspected a trick if the person making that call was a young woman, the type of henchman he wasn't exactly known for using. He had given the phone to Al, who had panicked and handed it over to the Captain, who had panicked and passed it to Techie…they had passed that thing around like a hot potato for a full minute before he had realized that they were actually _afraid_ to make the call. He had mentally added that to his already lengthy and diverse list of their phobias, and wondered why they had to be afraid of everything _but_ him. He would have much preferred for them to be shy with him and outgoing with everyone else, rather than the other way around.

Since they couldn't handle simple communication, he had made the call himself.

And now _she_ was on the telephone, trying to sell him lakeside property in some far-off place he had never intended to visit. Why? And how?

"It's _you_." She broke off in the middle of her sales pitch.

"Sorry?"

"My name is _not_ Larry Compton," he said. "I'm surprised you didn't already know that, Captain." There was no sound from the other end, not even the sound of her breathing. "My Captain does not answer, her lips are pale and still," Crane said tauntingly. The woman let out her breath in a sudden rush. "My daughter does not feel my arm, she has no pulse or will."

"Father," she said timidly. "The line is, 'My father…'"

"The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done," he continued, suddenly discovering that he was enjoying himself immensely. "From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;/Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!/But I, with mournful tread/Walk the deck my Captain lies,/Fallen cold and dead."

There was an extended moment of silence.

"Um…"

More silence. He broke it himself.

"You must not have been trained very well, if a little thing like this can shake you."

"It's…it's my first day." The poor girl sounded as if she were about to cry. He felt a nasty grin creep across his face

"And what were you doing before you started this job?"

"I was…" She telegraphed the lie long before she actually spoke the words. "I was a taxi driver, okay?" A taxi driver? That was the only job _less_ likely than telemarketer for the Captain to take. She sighed. "I knew I should gone with the Psychic Friends Network."

"What's your name?" he asked calmly. She made a soft sound that indicated distress. If this was, somehow, his former minion, he was doing quite a good job of rattling her. And if not, it was still an interesting diversion. He would be willing to bet that this kind of thing wasn't covered in the training manual.

"Sir, are you interested in the timeshare, or not?" she asked in a brusque tone that made him rethink the situation. The Captain had not always been perfectly polite, but she was generally capable of surprising amounts of patience, even on the verge of one of those patented three-part psychotic rages that had done so much to frighten his enemies away. And once she crossed the line into full-blown "I _keel_ you!" mode, he hadn't found her capable of coherent sentences. _And _she had spent too many years as a dedicated waitress to let a difficult customer throw her off her stride when she was working.

In short, _his_ Captain never would have talked to him like this, even as a ruse.

Or would she?

"I'll tell you what," he said. "You and I are going to have a little conversation. If, by the end of it, I'm convinced that you're not who I think you are, I'll buy whatever it is you're trying to sell me. Deal?"

"Deal," she said after only a moment of hesitation.

"Good. Now, what is your name?"

"Daphne," she answered, a little too quickly.

"Daphne?" he repeated. "Interesting. Certainly a little more unusual than Laura." He heard a sound that could have been a sharp intake of breath, and could just imagine her demanding, '_Since when do you know my real name?'_ "From the Greek, isn't it? Meaning a laurel tree? Incidentally, Laura is also derived from laurel. It's fascinating how such apparently different names can actually be so closely connected."

"I wouldn't know."

"If you say so." He let the silence hang, giving her some time to wonder where the next question would come from, and what it would be. "So, how are Al and Techie?"

"Who?" There was definitely some hesitation there. It could have been genuine confusion about the rather odd names…or it could have been a blatantly obvious attempt not to give anything away.

"Your sidekicks. I can't imagine any of you actually working alone. Are they in the room with you now?"

The urge to defend her friends must have been overwhelming. Despite her title of Captain, she was in no way the leader of the group, and the other two were definitely not her Robin and Batgirl.

But she said nothing.

Well, he would just have to draw her out a little more.

"When you died—"

"Died?" she interrupted. "Is _that_ what you think I am? The ghost of your dead daughter?"

"I couldn't very well expect you to be the ghost of my _live_ one." He smirked. If she thought he was a nutcase, this would be the time for her to hang up on him—as garden-variety nuts tended not to have the money for timeshares in wherever-it-was.

The fact that she stayed on the line proved that she was interested in something other than making a sale.

Perhaps she was interested in the fact that he had referred to her as a daughter, _and_ that he hadn't denied it when she threw the word back in his face?

"Sir, I'm sorry to tell you this, but I'm very much alive. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a ghost."

"Good. You enjoy blunt trauma too much to ever make a convincing Casper."

"Blunt…trauma?"

"Yes, inflicted with a club or a staff or what-have-you." She didn't respond. "As I was saying, when you three died, I missed the funeral."

"I'm sorry to hear that…"

"You should be," he snapped back, in the same tone that Al always used.

That never failed to get the Captain irritated enough to respond, "I _am._ That's why I _said_ it."

Daphne said nothing.

"If I had been there, I might have said a few words."

"Like what?" She was more interested than she tried to appear. Simple morbid curiosity? He thought not.

"Do not go gentle into that good night." She caught her breath as if she had taken a punch to the stomach, so what could he do but continue? "Old age should burn and rave at close of day;/Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Then her soft voice chimed in, faltering and sounding almost nothing like the Captain he remembered.

"Though wise men at their end know dark is right,/Because their words had forked no lightning they/Do not go gentle into that good night."

"You know it?" Of course she knew it. It had been one of the ones specifically marked in the book of poetry he had taken from her room, which had been his only reading material during the long weeks he had spent in Arkham. The book had been hidden away like a guilty pleasure, and, remembering the way she had teased Techie for reading Dickenson to him in the hospital (if indeed that had been more than just a dream) he was vindictively pleased to show her that he knew _her_ center was just as warm and gooey.

"It _is_ a pretty famous poem."

"That's the one I would have read for Al," he said, knowing from the notes he had found scribbled in the margins of the book that the Captain would much rather have had it for herself. But it _did_ remind him of Al, who, if she was dead, must surely have gone down swinging and screaming Japanese obscenities with her dying breath. Her death would not have been easy on _anyone_ involved.

"And 'O Captain! My Captain!'? Was that for the one you think I am?"

"Hardly." He didn't elaborate. Let her curiosity get the better of her. She must be dying to know what he would have said at her funeral. As if he really would have said anything, for anyone.

"What about the other one, then?" she finally asked.

"Techie?" he asked, pretending not to understand that she meant herself, the Captain—whichever. Something by Maya Angelou flitted through his mind before he recalled the one he wanted. "The Distance That the Dead Have Gone." It was another that had been prominently marked in the Captain's book, and…well, he suspected that whenever he read Dickinson from now on, he would hear it read with a sharp Midwestern accent. It was only fitting that she should live on that way.

"I don't know that one." The woman sounded choked up. She wasn't nearly as good a liar as she seemed to think she was.

"You should," he said. "It's especially meaningful in light of your evident return." The cat in his lap suddenly stretched, sat up, and nuzzled his arm. "Shoo, kitty," he whispered. It playfully sank its claws into his wrist.

"What?"

"There's a cat here," he said. "It seems to take after you. It threw itself into my lap uninvited, and now it seems to think I want to play." The woman giggled faintly. "Are you a cat person?" He carefully extricated himself from the kitten's claws, only to have it bat at him with the other paw.

"Not really. Dogs are more loyal. Cats only do what they choose to do."

"Some cats choose to be loyal. _Mine_ did." Once again, she went completely silent, the moment unbroken by even the whisper of her breath. "At least, that was what I thought. Until they left me."

"Oh," she said. "Did they run away, or did they die?"

"That's a good question," he answered.

"Well…cats that run away sometimes come back, if they know their owner really loves them." During the course of the conversation, her voice had crept up into an even higher register than before. Suddenly, he found himself doubting that this stranger was his Captain, after all.

"What if I said I loved them?" he asked, purely hypothetically, of course.

"I don't know. You'd have to say it to them."

He grimaced. Was she actually asking for a confession of love? He had never even told them he was not disappointed that they were still alive—hadn't even considered it until after their deaths.

Or was some bored and utterly confused young feminine taxi driver named Daphne just trying to offer a stranger some advice, in hopes that he would return the favor and contribute something to her paycheck?

Before he could ask any further questions, there came a tapping at the door.

He froze.

The parents? No, they wouldn't be knocking on their own door. The neighbors, coming to check in on the kids? A delivery? The cops?

So many options, so few of them amenable to his continued health and security.

"Sylvia Plath," he said into the phone.

"What?" Daphne asked, startled.

"The Captain liked Sylvia Plath. That's what I would have chosen for her."

There was a brief pause.

"I'm…not going to make my sale, am I?"

He hung up on her.

There was still time to get out the window and be gone. If he really pushed himself, he could reach relative safety before _too_ long, and then he would have a chance to rest.

He should have just asked Edward for help. But it was too late for that now.

He imagined her calling, "Squishy? Squishy!" into the dead telephone. He thought of the way they would undoubtedly worry about him, if indeed they were alive.

The voice in his head said nothing about giving himself up, and letting them take him back to Arkham.

But a feminine voice did pipe up, reminding him to stick a couple of apples in his pockets in case he got hungry later.

He unceremoniously dumped the kitten on the floor, but was not surprised when it followed him over to the window. He actually smiled at the little ball of fluff before he used his crutches to knock it away from his leg.

How odd…he was actually feeling better.

Against all expectations, things were almost looking up.


End file.
